60 Odd Years

Nancy Dupuis

Description

May we always be blessed with wonderful memories of those times past but also of the memories we create for ourselves along the way.
“With a goal in mind of providing each of my children and grandchildren a little update on my life travels after the publishing of “60 Odd Years”, I have decided to provide a short synopsis of each year for the next few – to hand off to them when I am older; my further gift to them, of who I really am. This writing may be in cursive form, short notes, or perhaps there may be even a short video to describe the joys of living. I am not sure what the end result will look like, but it will be cool, no matter. I love to tell my story!”
- The Writer in Me (Nancy Dupuis)

Sujets

• Covid
• Biography
• Grandparent
• Military
• Autobiography
• Mom

Informations

• Publié par: Trafford Publishing
• Date de parution: 10 novembre 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781698713236
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

60 Odd Years
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
NANCY DUPUIS
The Writer i n Me
 
© Copyright 2022 Nancy Dupuis. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.
 
ISBN: 978-1-6987-1322-9 (sc) ISBN: 978-1-6987-1324-3 (hc) ISBN: 978-1-6987-1323-6 (e)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2022919745
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only. Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.
Trafford rev. 11/03/2022
www.trafford.com North America & international toll-free: 844-688-6899 (USA & Canada) fax: [phone]
Contents
Preface
 
Chapter 1     My Childhood Years
Chapter 2     The Military Years
Chapter 3     With Life Comes Death
Chapter 4     A New Adventure
 
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
Preface
“As I headed out to share a meal with old friends here on the Island on that Boxing Day, I was reminded of the many lasting friendships we, as a family have made over the years as well as the new ones I continue to make as I go about my daily life now. I believe human contact is a necessity in each and every one of our lives. We crave acceptance and love, as humans. Where we find it, is mostly up t o us.”
Chapter 1
My Childhood Years
Where to begin? Recollections of a little girl (4 years old) at her Grandmother’s wake at the house next door in the country – a coffin in the dining room; 1956, a time when this was still a common occurrence; I now understand as an adult the value of holding wakes as family and community come together to pay their final respects to the deceased. Our Mom always took us (or dragged us along as I used to call it) to wakes and funerals from the time we were small children. I get that now and actually am appreciative. I now pull on my “good” clothes and attend these sombre occasions out of respect as well. Even last evening, as I attended yet another wake, I was surprised at the sheer magnitude my attendance meant to a brother of the deceased. He, an old family friend and who was mourning the loss of his sister, mentioned two of our brothers had been in during the afternoon visitation, and now here we were, the two sisters. Our Mother and Father, especially in later years, had been such good friends with this family, all living in the same village. A brief chat with another member of this family made me realize how important attending that wake really was as she spoke of her late husband’s visits to the retirement home where our Mother had lived for a time, and he’d always come home telling her what Janetta had been knitting today. That very comment warmed my heart so, as I conjured up a picture in my mind, of my Mom, knitting needles click-clacking away, enjoying news from outside the four walls of the facility she now called home.
But, back to life in that old white house in a small country village (Appleton, Ontario). I was the oldest; a girl, five other children to follow soon after. There was no running water, no indoor toilet, and just an old wood stove that my Mother used to cook her heart out on. The winters were cold and the beds were brought downstairs each winter as it was much too cold to sleep upstairs with the windows frosted over. Between the wood stove in the kitchen and an oil burner in the hallway separating the living room and dining room, we were at least kept half warm in the winters. I vaguely remember four bedrooms upstairs – my Mother and Father’s room, two other bedrooms where each of the four boys shared a room with another and then a room where I slept, later on sharing that room with a crib in which my little sister slept. I remember a story my Mother used to tell me of the first night that baby came to sleep in my room. The first cry in the night, and my Mother came to the baby, only to find me up trying to soothe the little girl. I apparently had thought the baby was my responsibility now that she slept in my room.
As I start to write this story, I think back to my Grandparents home, next door to ours. It was the fall of 1956 and my Grandmother had just died and was laid out at home, a normal thing to do in those times. I was just 4 years old at the time and I can still see a vision of that coffin along one wall of what I believe used to be the dining room off the kitchen. There was a Victrola machine for playing music in the entrance way to the house on the corner, the dining room to the left. To the right of the entrance was the little parlour where my Grandmother had lain in bed 12 years prior to her death, bedridden with arthritis. We have an old photograph of my Grandfather sitting with her beside her bed. He looked so very tired, but was with her to the end.
The upstairs to the house was out of bounds, as no real need to go up there. I can still remember the upstairs though as I must have taken a look or two up there as a youngster, being inquisitive and wanting to know just what was up above when no one was looking. A cousin recently confirmed that they had visited when she was just a child and staying overnight, she remembered the upstairs was indeed very, very cold in the winter months.

The home of my grandparents in Appleton, Ontario
These were the times of no running water, wringer washers, frozen laundry hanging about in the winter taking its due time to dry, outhouses – a time when my Mom and her sister-in-law shared the same maternity dress for their monthly visits to the family doctor. We were not rich, but we were blessed by what we did have and the generous neighbours who all contributed to each other’s well-being in times of need.
My Grandfather lived in that house for a number of years after my Grandmother’s death, before moving to a rooming house in a nearby town, in later years. During the day, he continued to travel out to help at the farm one of his sons had taken over from him earlier on in life and did that for as long as he could. I can still remember the old truck, blue it was, I think. In the evenings, he could be heard playing the fiddle for hours on end. He enjoyed playing the fiddle well into his late eighties and usually performed at the local Fair’s annual fiddle contest. I can remember our whole family sitting on the old grandstand, on a Saturday night, feeling so proud that this was our father, father-in-law, and most of all, just Grandpa.
Grandpa had a phone, we didn’t. My Mom would make the trek across the back field if she needed to make a call. I remember gooseberry bushes and red currant bushes in Grandpa’s yard, that my Mom and I would pick, and then she would put away for the winter the many bottles of jam from these seemingly just berries growing on a bush - so delicious later spread on homemade tea biscuits, again made by my Mom’s loving hands.
As more brothers & a sister appeared at our house next door, a huge garden was needed to keep everyone fed. I still remember many a spring day when we kids would sit on the hill at the back of the house watching my Grandfather with horse and plough work the land for Mom and Dad. The most prevalent of crops in that garden was white navy beans. Bushels and bushels of beans would be stored in the cold cellar for the winter months ahead. There were many days in the winter months we’d come home from school at lunch time to enjoy a big bowl of steaming, hot bean soup much like the pea soup of our day now. To dress it up just a bit, my Mom would throw in a can of tomato soup for a little variety, and also, I suspect to make it go just a little further.
I remember fondly of a time I was vacationing on the farm for a week with my cousins and we were heading into the big city to shop. A first for me, and I think Grandpa knew, as he stuffed a $2 bill into my hand. I never forgot that. I couldn’t have been more than 8 or 9 years old at the time. I often think back now to that morning and wonder what Grandpa would think of how times have changed since those days. In later years, I travelled twice a day back and forth to and from the city like it was just part of the normal routine, during my working career.
My Grandfather was a tall, lanky man, very quiet, but oh so well read. He always subscribed to a number of newspapers right up until the time of his death in 1980, at the age of 96. Apparently he ate bacon and eggs every morning, although I can still recall the odd corn flakes box in the kitchen at the old house next door.
As I think of my Grandfather now that I am an adult and living in a world so very different from his, I think fondly of who he was, bringing into this world 7 children, each making a mark on life in their later years in their own way. Grandchildren arrived, Great-grandchildren too and the descendants continue to this day. The family tree is strong, something of which he’d be oh so very proud of – I see him as I type this, standing unassuming with pipe in hand. This was just pure simplicity in the enjoyment of his pipe and how he lived. A life well lived, born 18 March 1884, the youngest of 12 children, he passed away on February 29, 1980. My own son had been born just a few short months prior to Grandpa’s passing. Mom in her quiet way, reflected that the world was only so big, and some had to move on to make room for the new one